


Colony Year 1812

by pocketbookangel



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/pseuds/pocketbookangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 19th century New Moscow, hearts are broken as a space colony prepares for war.</p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">The prompt was for Hélène as Natasha's badnews lover instead of Anatole, but for some reason Hélène is taking the place of Anatole <em>and</em> Pierre.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Colony Year 1812

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophia_sol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophia_sol/gifts).



They’d opened the shutters so the first class passengers could enjoy the constellations swirling above them and the fantastic crystalline structures of the colony they were approaching, but the wonders of the galaxy were mundane and could not compete with the perfectly formed beauty of the Countess Hélène Bezukhova as she passed through the cabin. Even those who knew her name and her reputation were silent, her regal and alluring shoulders arising from her silvery traveling gown reminded them of the stories they told in the days when humans were still bound to earth, stories of alien princesses ruling silent planets.

Hélène had always felt it was polite to overlook the effect her beauty had on its audience. She smiled politely at the attendants, nodded absently, yet graciously at the universe which provided a suitable backdrop for her beauty.

In truth, she felt as if the shuttle were carrying her in the wrong direction. If it weren’t for the war, she would be in LaVille, still the centre of art and culture, instead of going to New Moscow to reconcile with her husband, the gloomy and dissatisfied Count Pyotr Kirillovich Bezukhov. Dear Pierre! Perhaps he could have lived with the rumours of her infidelity (mostly true), but he would never forgive her lack of interest in his Theory of History.

The cabin darkened as the shuttle prepared for docking, the vastness of space closed away from its inhabitants. From this point on, the only sky visible would be the painted skies of New Moscow.

“I am not a great man,” Pierre had looked up from his manuscript, and Hélène wondered if she was supposed to contradict this statement. “None of us are great men. We are just caught in the wave of history—”

“I certainly feel caught in a wave whenever I see what this colony considers spring fashion.” Hélène had smiled, it had obviously been a joke, but Pierre slammed his notebook shut and began pacing angrily. They had been married for two weeks at that point

DENIED

Hélène blinked, then opened her eyes very wide for the scanner. The light flickered, resistant to her charm.

DENIED

Her brief moment of good feeling toward her husband dissolved. A petty, useless gesture from a petty useless man. She pushed the buzzer.

“What do you want,” Pierre growled. Holographic technology was all very well, but it hadn’t designed for Pierre, who thought nothing of letting his virtual self appear in the same clothing he’d gone drinking in the night before.

“You,” he said.

“Me, darling. Will you let me in, our will our domestic troubles be _la rumeur du jour_.”

Pierre came down and opened the door himself. Insomnia and alcohol were even more evident in the real man than in his copy even as his features seemed to be retreating under his beard. He had been so young! He had been so very rich! A twinge of regret for the life they might have lived together pained her. It was a brief feeling that might have passed unacknowledged, but Pierre sensed it. His bewildered bear face relaxed for a moment.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

“ _C'était d'un ennui, sans vous_ ,” Hélène said. Insincerity had hardened into habit. It would have been better to say nothing, love and be silent, as they say, but it was too late. Pierre adjusted his glasses censoriously, arming himself with piety and philosophy against her.  
He had been so young! She should have been able to form him into the perfect consort. He had been so very rich! Wealth without charm or taste was a terrible waste.

Not wanting to set a bad example for any audience they might have, Hélène lifted her hand and patted him affectionately on his cheek.

“Your brother is here with...” Pierre coughed a little to cover his embarrassment. “A friend.”

“Anatole has many friends.”

“Dolokhov, the one who was in the Caucasus.” Dolokhov, one of the subjects of the (mostly true) rumours.

Hélène smiled. “Anatole and Dolokhov are staying with you? No wonder you look like you haven’t slept, my poor husband. Are they in?”

Hélène adored her brother, and as a result of the careful study they’d made of each other over the years, she knew his every flaw. He was reckless and incapable of planning anything more difficult than a visit to the club. At least Dolokhov would take care of him. Dolokhov needed Anatole for his access to the club, for introductions to rich friends who played cards badly, for small loans, and if her husband’s embarrassment were any clue, there might be something else. Anatole and Dolokhov, charm and taste without wealth was a terrible waste.

“They went to watch a demonstration of the new Leshyi suits. They say the redeveloped S-class can travel from La Ville to Freedom One without stopping at a charge station.”

“The Americans have had suits like that for years, but they’re useless in battle and too expensive to mass produce to carry freight, so they’re mainly used for racing between Freedom One and Freedom Two. Truly, this war will be ended by those who design mobile suits, not those who fight in them,” Hélène said.

“Don’t repeat idiotic things you don’t understand,” Pierre said. He glared at his wife.

“You don’t know what I understand or don’t understand,” Hélène said. In the early days of their marriage, she would sob theatrically whenever Pierre raised his voice, but that had done very little to advance her position, so she’d abandoned that particular strategy. “I will join my brother at the testing ground—will you come?”

“I have to study.” Pierre sighed. After one last unhappy glance at his wife, he retreated to his library.

Hélène dressed herself with care. She powdered her neck, wrapped her favourite pearls around her neck, and retied the ribbon that was holding back her hair. Her dress was made of heavy silks, shimmering layers skilfully designed to be removed in case of an emergency such as a romantic assignation, or Hélène’s personal fantasy, one of the new mobile suits needed a pilot. She’d always been a better pilot than Anatole, with faster reflexes and a higher sync rate, but marriage had put an end to any possibility of that as a career.

Seven years ago, she had duelled her brother to see who was going to bring Pierre’s money into their family, the loser had to charm Count Bezukhov into marriage. Or was it the winner? All she remembered was the moment of betrayal, Anatole’s Vodyanoy pushing her old Leshyi into the lake, trapping her underwater until her sync rate collapsed and she had to escape. As she fought her way to the surface, she felt overwhelmed with pride. It was exactly what she would have done had their positions been reversed.

The testing grounds were on the outskirts of New Moscow’s primary urban centre, a bare field under a vast sky. Dolokhov was waiting for her in the bar near the main gate.

“I feel obligated to scold you for being such a terrible influence on my husband,” she said.

“I would prefer to be a terrible influence on you,” Dolokhov said, rakish grin firmly in place.

Hélène laughed. “The handsomest face in the world can’t make up for such a trite saying. If you must, _en français mots bêtises sont intelligents_. At least that’s the technique Anatole favours.”

“The sister is much like the brother.” Dolokhov leaned across the table, closing the space between them.

“From you, that’s almost a compliment. The question is, if you weren’t so fond of my brother, would I like you less, or would I like you more?” She allowed him to lead her into the observation circle, walking arm in arm to the private boxes.

Hélène wore admiring glances as lightly as she wore a double string of pearls around her neck and the layers of silk wrapped around her body. However, as she settled into her seat, she could feel a peculiar intensity directed at her from the next box. It was the Countess Natalya Rostova, her eyes wide and sparkling as her gaze moved from the pearls to Hélène’s bare shoulders.

Marya Dmitrievna, who knew everyone in society, waved her over. “Have you been here long, Countess?” she inquired. “And where is dear Pierre? He never used to forget us.”

“He must come visit us” Natasha added.

“I will implore him to do so,” answered Hélène, and glanced attentively at Natasha.

Marya Dmitrievna resumed her seat. “There’s a woman one should stay far away from,” she whispered to Natasha, but Hélène could guess at her words.

“She's a woman one could easily fall in love with,” said Natasha to herself. Hélène smiled. Perhaps her stay in New Moscow would not be as dull as she had feared.

Just then the band started to play an old ballad rewritten as a jaunty military tune. The new suits marched out on to the field. The new Leshyi mobile suits were not as tall as the old ones, which had been almost ten meters and too broad across to easily pilot inside the colony. They stood in a line across the field, and everyone clapped politely as the dozen suits turned so they could be examined. One stepped forward, then sprung into the air, almost too fast for the human eye to see. It hovered above the field, accelerated again, first becoming a bright metallic splash against the painted sky, then a falling star. Before it could hit the ground, massive wings unfolded and it appeared to float, perfectly still. The crowd applauded wildly. Hélène watched Natasha, clapping, her eyes bright. So lovely.

"New Moscow crowds are easily impressed," Hélène said to Dolokhov.

"Wait," he replied.

The Leshyi's wings began to move, the air around it grew thick, it jumped again, and for a moment no one could breathe. It reappeared, or rather, it blinked back into existence.

"How..." Hélène was stunned. She'd never seen anything move that fast while shielded.

The crowd roared as the cockpit opened and the pilot waved.

That face, that figure more familiar to her than her own. Hélène blew him a kiss. Anatole, as comfortable in front of a crowd as he was in his own home, waved at her. Even at that distance she could see his eyes move, see him look from her to Natasha.

After the demonstration, Anatole joined Hélène in her box. They put their heads together, Hélène watching Natasha watch them.

"She's engaged."

"If it comes to that, I'm married."

"You're terrible."

"An introduction, dear sister. And if you look the other way, I'll let you borrow this." Anatole slipped the key to the prototype into Hélène's hand.

"You should wait until she's married, you impatient man."

"Ah, but married women are so cynical."

Finally, Hélène beckoned to Natasha. Such plans, a ball for all of the best of the city.

“Your fiancé would want you to have fun,” Hélène’s lovely smile washed away the doubts from Natasha’s mind. Everyone said that Hélène ran the most brilliant salon in Moscow, the greatest men in all of the Europa colonies sat at her feet. She was beautiful and wise, surely her brother must be kind and good, or so Natasha believed.

\--

Hélène did not like to examine her own motives. Leaving Anatole and Pierre to their argument, she slipped away to the Rostov’s to return Natasha’s letters.

Sonya greeted her with suspicion and hostility, but once she saw that all of the letters were there and Hélène had no interest in spreading the story of the elopement, she agreed to see if Natasha would be willing to meet with her visitor.

Natasha was standing in the middle of the drawing room, with a pale yet steady face. When Hélène appeared at the door she grew confused, evidently undecided whether to go to meet her or to wait till she came up.

Hélène held out her hand as usual; but Natasha, stepping up to her, stopped, breathing heavily, her arms hanging lifelessly just in the pose she used to stand in when she went to the middle of the ballroom to sing, but the look on her face was quite different.

“Countess Bezukhova,” she began to speak quickly, “Prince Kuragin was your brother—is your brother,” she corrected herself. (It seemed to her that everything that had once been must now be different.) “I once believed that if something was done by a great lady such as yourself, then it must be correct. Now I think you must have known that your brother was not free.”

Hélène tried to smile, but her beautiful and insincere expression failed as she gazed into Natasha’s clear eyes. Here was a real person with real feelings who had been badly hurt.

“My dear, you must know that I never intended… my brother can be foolish and impulsive, and I did not know he would carry his enthusiasm so far. Prince Bolkonski is my husband’s friend, he will listen to him, he will carry any message you like. If you ask him to reconsider…”

“No, I know all is over.” She stopped and breathed still more quickly, but did not shed tears. “I'm only tormented by the wrong I have done him. Tell him only that I beg him to forgive, forgive, forgive me for everything....” She trembled all over and sat down on a chair.

An unfamiliar feeling flowed through Hélène’s heart. She wanted to toss off an idle line about how all wrongs could be excused by love, but the false words refused to come to her lips. “Pierre will carry any message you like. But... I should like to know one thing…”

“Know what?” Natasha's eyes asked.

“I should like to know, did you love my brother? He can be a very bad man—”

“Don't call him bad!” said Natasha. “But I don't know, don't know at all....”

She began to cry. Hélène was silent as feelings she could not put a name to overwhelmed her heart.

“I will help make things right,” said Hélène, and the gentleness in her voice suddenly seemed very strange to Natasha.

Hélène returned to Pierre's house, a place that had never been her home. She knew even before entering that Anatole had gone. Pierre was in his study, not reading, not drinking, only waiting.

“She’s fine, or will be,” said Hélène.

Pierre stared at his wife, confusion and guilt in his eyes.

Hélène unfastened the chain that held the key to Anatole's Leshyi prototype. “If you want to do something, dearest husband.” The key glittered as it flew through the air. “Do you think there are no great men? How about a man who stops a war?”

Hélène waited for her husband to leave. She had done what she could to make amends. She locked Natasha’s forgiveness inside of her heart, a treasure, beautiful and true.

 


End file.
